The Misadventures of Vampire John
by The Skye Skye
Summary: One night John becomes a vampire. The events that follow after are nothing short of catastrophic. John's learning how to be a proper vampire, with a very improper sociopath "helping" him along the way. New life, new rules, and Sherlock is never bored.
1. One  The Making

Sherlock had lost him again. Jumping from rooftop to fire escape, through open flat windows and out the startled occupants front doors, down stair cases, swirling through alley's dodging traffic. His heart was racing, he'd ripped the knee of his jeans along the way somewhere but now, he was beneath an overpass, lost to his partner completely. Sherlock had vanished. John bent over, gripping his knees as he heaved in gulp after gulp of cold night air, his lungs burning as he did his best to recover. He wasn't getting any younger, that certainly showed now a days. The killer they'd been chasing had struck four times this month, draining the victims near to the point of death of their blood using a tool that made the wound look like that of a vampire bite. Sherlock had been thrilled. It was so clever and elegant and positively mad. John had even been a bit impressed at the killer's creativity.

At first, John didn't realize there was someone watching him. When it came to his attention that in fact, someone had begun approaching him, their expensive heals clicking against cold concrete, he spun around to take in the sight of a rather bizzare looking woman. She was tall, in her heals, taller than John. Her frame was wiry, and whimsical in it's movements. She looked like the very wind personified. Her long blonde hair was frizzy, flowing all around her, half done up with a ribbon and half hanging down. Perhaps she could have been a model if she didn't look so homeless. She was stumbling in his direction, and she seemed crazed. John took a step away.

"Are you all right miss? I'm a doctor? I can help...?" John's slight unnerved feelings about the woman were seeping into his speech. What happened next was too fast for John to think straight. She was on him in a flurry of hair and clothes and she was _biting _him. As her teeth sank into his neck the only thing he could think was 'I really hope this woman doesn't have rabies.' but he was finding his whole body going weak quite quickly, while she seemed to grow stronger. He was paralyzed, couldn't move, and she was drinking his blood. It suddenly occurred to him that this woman was the killer and he was going to suffer the same fate as the others. It also occurred to him that he was starting to feel a bit high... This woman was insane to think herself a vampire.

"N-No... Stop..." John grunted weakly, trying to will his unresponsive body into action. It wasn't working. He groaned uncomfortably as his body grew cold and she dropped him gracelessly to the ground, wiping her mouth with her dainty fingers. John felt his extremities tingling pleasantly cool, and that terrified him.

"Shhhh..." she whispered, her voice arousing John a bit, much against his will. "Jus' let death take you, sweet fing..."

He groaned loudly, trying to move again, but he couldn't. His body was a useless mass against the hard ground. He felt amazing, yet horrified because he was now dying. He never imagined he'd go out like this, being drank to death by a crazy sodding twat under a London woman laughed, her voice sounded so far away yet it echoed in every part of his body. He squeezed his eyes shut for what felt like hours (hours of swimming feelings of panic, amusement, arousal, and anger) and didn't open them again until he felt hands on his face, covered in leather smell of his flatmate filled his senses so intensely that John could hardly breathe. It was so intense, so wonderful. Musky, sweet, and sort of gingery... Must have been his choice of aftershave. How John had never noticed it's pungent smell before was beyond him.

"John! John wake up! Don't die on me now John!"

John smiled softly, a fit of giggles leaving him at the sound of worry in his voice. Why should Sherlock worry? He felt _fantastic._ Ohhhhh, Sherlock. So the sod had realized that John had fallen behind. _Bit too late really_, thought John. Sherlock was tilting John's head to the side and he gasped when he saw the ring of teeth marks on John's neck. He shook his head emphatically as if it would make a difference, then gathered John up into his arms and cursed under his breath.

"We'll get you home John. Don't worry... I know I can fix this..." Sherlock whispered. John groaned as he was lifted over Sherlock's shoulder and then carried and dropped like a sack of potatoes into the back seat of a car. Lestrade's voice was quick to grace his ears. John's vision was blurred and vivd, swimming with colors he didn't even know existed.

"Shouldn't we be taking him to a hospital, Sherlock?"

John's head lolled about as Sherlock lifted him and slid beneath him in the car, letting John rest in his lap. John giggled a little as he mentally called Sherlock a '_bloody poof_' and Sherlock merely flicked him against the tip of his nose, reading it in John's face immediately.

"Enough John. Rest." Sherlock scolded. "We can't take him to a hospital. The wound is identical to the other victims. A blood transfusion will only have the same results I'm certain... And I'd rather not watch John die a horrifyingly painful death whilst going completely mad."

Sherlock knew something that he wasn't revealing and so John was curious. The rest of the drive was tersely quiet and as soon as Sherlock had John up over his shoulder and inside the flat door, he slammed the paneling in Lestrade's face, carrying John upstairs. He deposited John on the couch and swept out of the room and there was clattering in the kitchen, low cursing, and a smell hit John's nose that made him groan with pleasure. That smell was beautiful and delicious. He arched his back involuntarily and moaned again as it consumed his senses. Sherlock came into the room a moment later with a wine glass full of dark red. The smell was coming from that glass and Sherlock seemed nervous, yet excited. The pure fascination that showed how not-bored Sherlock was made John a little giddy. The smell seemed enough to give John strength enough to sit up. It felt fluid and slow but Sherlock gasped and jumped back a bit.

"Bloody fucking... Damn John..." Sherlock hissed under his breath, having been startled. John's eyes were on that glass, which Sherlock slowly extended to him. John, without hesitation took it in his fingers and brought it to his lips, the taste of it as the thick liquid slid over his tongue was unlike anything he'd ever tasted. He moaned again, draining the glass quickly. His body grew hot, very hot in fact, and he felt strong enough to take on the world. His eyes flicked up to meet Sherlock's and Sherlock was riveted.

"_Brilliant..._" Sherlock whispered, kneeling before John, putting the pieces of the puzzle together that were lying before him. "Brilliant John! You're brilliant..."

John started to feel surprisingly normal again, his body calming, but his libido spiking a bit.

"What happened? What did you just give me...?" John inquired softly as Sherlock took his chin in hand and turned his head to the side to examine the wound.

"Amazing!" Sherlock cried. "It's completely healed! How fascinating..."

John waited a few moments as Sherlock's fingers ran over where he'd been bitten and counted down from ten in his head. When finally he reached one, his patience with Sherlock ran out.

"Sherlock!" John barked, the very power of his voice knocking Sherlock onto his back, but Sherlock didn't appear bothered in the least. In fact, this seemed to excite him more.

"John. Don't be alarmed, but I am quite certain you are no longer human..." Sherlock whispered, completely enraptured by the army doctor before him.

"What?" John asked incredulously, his brain working twice normal capacity as he now read what Sherlock was thinking right off the detective's face. "Sherlock I am not a vampire."

Sherlock scrambled to his feet and took John's face in his hands, grinning at him.

"Oh but John, I'm fairly positive that _you are._"

~tbc


	2. Two The Teeth

Sherlock had taken notice of many changes in John's behavior of late (_because really, there were many_) but none was so irksome as his reluctance to reveal his teeth. John no longer smiled brightly and when he laughed, he always brought his hand up, as if being polite. More irritating even, John would hang his head when he spoke. He was hiding from the world, still refusing to come to terms with what he'd become. John could no longer walk in the sunlight (_Sherlock preferred the moonlight anyhow_), he slept all day in a room with newly purchased blackout curtains (No coffins in the flat, Mrs. Hudson would have suspected something), and drank from blood that Sherlock kept stored in the freezer _(previously for experiments, now for John's unending hunger_). But his teeth were what really bothered him (_of all bloody things_). His sharp, shiny, new teeth. And Sherlock was determined now, to see them, no matter what it took. It had become a game of what Sherlock could do to get John to accidentally reveal them, however, John had wised up to Sherlock's game quite quickly. It seemed John was twice as observant as he'd been before he'd become a vampire, and Sherlock couldn't help but adore the change, even if it meant he had to use twice as much brainpower to outwit his flatmate.

However, after weeks and weeks of trying to outsmart John and trick him into revealing those positively fascinating fangs, Sherlock's patience had worn thin and now he'd resolved to the simplest plan he could devise.

"Please John...? What harm could it do to let me examine them...?" Sherlock mused, twirling one of his long pale fingers into the hair at the nape of John's hair which now had a habit of growing unnaturally fast and had become quite shaggy as of late. John swatted Sherlock's hand away, growling a little, an impulse he couldn't really control. His baser instinct now was pushing him to just open wide and sink his teeth into his ever obnoxious flatmate. However, he knew that was something he simply couldn't do. Sherlock had even gone out of his way to prevent John from being too tempted. No more dangerous experiments in which Sherlock might injure himself (open cuts would be like an all you can eat buffet, obviously, Sherlock had thought) and he never let John drink from him. He'd bring back blood from only God knows where (John didn't have the strength to ask) for John to drink. Sherlock's persistence about his teeth was starting to wear him thin. It was so uncomfortable for him to reveal or admit that he was no longer just John. He was John, demon of the sodding night! John huffed heavily as Sherlock slid his head into John's personal space, gazing up at him with curious and prying eyes.

"Sherlock!" John snapped, giving the detective a good push, sending him flying back onto the floor. He still wasn't used to his own strength, and for a brief moment he worried that he might have really hurt Sherlock this time. Sherlock caught the glimpse of worry on his face and quickly decided to play it up a bit. He gave a sham groan of pain and rolled onto his side. In a split second, John was at his side, moving inhumanly fast.

"Sherlock! Bollocks! I'm sorry... So sorry... I keep forgetting..." John stammered, his tongue darting out over his lips as it often did when he was nervous. His pearly fangs were briefly visible as he did so and Sherlock's cheeks flushed with excitement. John was examining Sherlock for injury and didn't even realize he was biting his lower lip, his fangs curling down over soft supple flesh as he did so, and it wasn't until he heard Sherlock's heart rate increase that he realized what he'd done.

"Damn you Sherlock!" John said, jumping up and covering his mouth with one hand. Sherlock pouted petulantly as he slowly rose to his feet. No, that would not do. He needed to see those teeth. He _had to. _

"Don't do that John... Come now... You can be... _Need to be... _Yourself with me. Since no one else knows. Don't be ashamed John, show me your teeth." he whispered reassuringly in that sort of manipulatively warm way that Sherlock used when fishing for information from innocent people while on cases. John sighed heavily and let himself be turned around. As his eye's met Sherlock's John slowly opened his mouth and Sherlock lit up like he did at a particularly fascinating crime scene. It was both irritating and flattering. Sherlock slid his index finger along one of John's slender and sharp fangs, his skin tingling a bit at the feel of the venomous thing against him. It was a familiar rush, knowing John could easily over power and kill him in a heartbeat. Sherlock was never bored, knowing that he was risking his life by pushing John's buttons like this. John could bite down and poison him with those fangs in milliseconds. Sherlock shivered at the thought of living eternally and solving cases until the world literally faded to dust. Thrilling. He and John against the world for an eternity. Just the thought that he had the option right at his fingertips was amazing.

"Beautiful... You're such an incredible specimen John." Sherlock praised softly, gasping suddenly as John's fang-tip caught his skin and a little pearl of blood rose out of the puncture. John's eyes fluttered briefly and then he groaned, causing Sherlock to nervously yank his hand away. John covered his mouth with his hand again, coming to his senses once craving that rushed through every inch of his body was overwhelming for a moment. The smell, the way he could almost taste Sherlock, it had all been so amazing and so wonderful and pleasurable.

"Happy now?" John growled defensively, curling in on himself. It was an embarrassment to want to devour one's flatmate. A disgrace even. "You finally get your fill?" John's tone was harsh and accusing, causing Sherlock to cringe a bit. It was like an animal inside John had spoken instead of his sensible army doctor. Sherlock didn't answer right away, actually mulling John's question over seriously. John was storming away for a shower to calm his frayed nerves as Sherlock came to his conclusion, knowing without a doubt how he felt.

_"I'll never get enough..."_

tbc


	3. Three The Doctor

There was rain coming down in heavy sheets, there was no way the driver would have seen Sherlock with how dark the consulting detective dresses, that long coat making him blend into the night. John had said many times that it was impractical for a man who often runs through the streets at night to wear such things. John had tried to warn Sherlock, he could hear the car approaching and see the lights before Sherlock's brilliant mind even thought to look both ways. A cautionary habit that Sherlock had likely deleted due to "irrelevance". Sherlock was on the chase and there was no way he was thinking of anything but the thrill of catching their latest criminal. Nothing caught the consulting detective's attention quite like a serial killer.

John had been startled and more or less, irritated by Sherlock's stupidity and the sound of the man rolling over the hood of Lestrade's squad car. They'd been on the chase too, but as soon as the bumper connected with Sherlock's body and propelled him up over the slick body of the car and off onto the pavement on the other side everything came grinding to a halt. The pound of rain was barely a buzz in John's ears over the beating thrum of Sherlock's blood in his veins. He was injured, bleeding internally, and John was lost to a beast inside him. John strange vampiristic instincts overwhelmed him as he hoisted a very unconscious and injured, Sherlock off the wet pavement, slinging him over his shoulder. His behavior was almost primal in the way he growled for Lestrade and his force to back off, knowing just what to do about all this. He didn't need help to fix Sherlock. Something inside him said 'Go home. Go home and fix him.'. He didn't give anyone a chance before he was sprinting at an inhuman speed to 221 B. He burst through the door and carefully deposited Sherlock onto the couch, ignoring the groan of protest. John licked his lips nervously and some sort of primal instinct told him what he needed to do.

John went to the kitchen and his eyes dove through all of Sherlock's experiment supplies, finding what he needed. A sterile syringe, glass vial, and scalpel. Sherlock was coughing up precious blood all over himself and it was making it difficult for John to focus, his head swimming with the smell of it. He carefully dabbed clean a section of his skin, and then, with the scalpel, he made a small but deep incision, capturing his blood in the vial. Just a few moments after his cut had opened and some of his blood was caught, his wound had healed. John didn't bother wondering whether or not this was sane, all he cared about was results right now. This was going to work. This would save Sherlock. And even... Make him better than ever.

Sherlock was nearing death, but John was steady as he filled the syringe with his dark, near black blood and approached the consulting detective. He forcibly ripped Sherlock's coat and shirt off him, exposing his creamy skin to John's eyes, each vein pulsing with weak and strained need to stay alive. The way Sherlock's body was struggling to stay alive was beautiful. The man was unconscious, barely breathing, and covered all down his front in blood, his hair sticking to his face with the rain, and John had never found this man more beautiful.

He found a nice meaty vein in Sherlock's arm by sight alone and pressed the needle in carefully, and then, slowly injected Sherlock, who immediately inhaled sharply. His eyes shot open and rolled back in his head, his body arching up from the couch and flushing rouge from head to toe, his body trembling as he gave a long and low groan. John felt his lips quirking up in a grin as he watched Sherlock's breathing return to normal. It was wonderful. Sherlock struggled to gain control of his mind and body again, the last bits of blood sputtering from his mouth as he forced himself to sit up.

"John... John I feel.. warm..." Sherlock whispered hoarsely, causing John to chuckle lowly. The blood on Sherlock's lips and the blood sliding down his chin and neck was driving John crazy. His eyes saw nothing else. Just blood. Sherlock's blood. It smelled sweet and musky, with a hint of something metallic but also citrus. Intriguing and wonderful just as the consulting detective himself was. John's face was pale, his eyes sunken. He wanted to feed. He needed it. Sherlock took in the state of his friend and then saw the syringe in his hand with traces of the dark liquid clinging to the inside of the utensil. He reached up and touched the injection sight, feeling where he'd been injected. "You saved my life..."

John shrugged. It wasn't the first time. Wouldn't be the last. That was just that. Sherlock's bloodied mouth quirked upward just a hair.

"I think you deserve a reward." Sherlock said, grabbing John's shoulders and pulling them face to face, noses barely inches apart. "Go ahead... It's already been spilled. I don't need it..."

Sherlock's husky baritone made John shiver, more from the implications of what Sherlock was allowing him to do than the sound itself. He'd never drank blood so fresh and his tongue was already twitching behind his teeth with anticipation. He leaned in and looked away from Sherlock's gaze as he flicked his tongue out and traced it over the blood on Sherlock's lower lip, the flavor of life bursting over his tongue and making him growl a little as he caught that lip in his mouth, sucking at it, getting every drop of blood off before he lapped at Sherlock's chin greedily with long and languid strokes of his tongue. Then it was down to Sherlock's neck to catch the stray trails of blood and then Sherlock's chest where a few drops had landed. He licked Sherlock clean, his whole body tingling and flushing with healthy color as the blood sank into his system, making him groan with the pleasure of fullness. Sherlock tilted his head and observed John's satiated state and assessed John, adding new facts to his database about vampires. His vampire specifically. His blood has healing properties beyond modern medicine's comprehension. It takes significantly less fresh blood to fill John than frozen or old blood. Sherlock's fascination was only growing.

John looked up at Sherlock with dark and hungry eyes, his smile sleepy and sated.

"Thanks..." he purred, and Sherlock simply nodded in response, his body still humming with the feel of the vampire blood in his veins.

_How very curious this all is becoming. Curious indeed._


	4. Four The Donor

John stared blankly at the sleek black car that was all too familiar to him as it pulled up beside him on the side walk. Mycroft. John had been expecting this since the moment he'd changed. It was only a matter of time before his strange behavior and new found night life would have called for the man's attention. When the door opened to him he didn't question it. He got in the car, greeted by miss "Anthea" whom he was all too familiar with as well now.

"Where to, tonight?" John inquired quietly, facing away from her and gazing out the window, his fingers tapping rhythmically against his knee which was bouncing nervously. He hoped that he was not driving to his incarceration. Surely Mycroft would have no idea as to what he was, and wouldn't be looking to lock him up. Or worse, sign him up for government experimentation. Anthea didn't respond and John gave a sigh. He could hear her blood thrumming through her veins and her fingers flying over the keys of her blackberry. He wanted to tune out the sounds, wrap himself up in his own mind and pretend that this was just a normal social call. Maybe even something more pleasant, like a date.

At the thought, John cast a sideways glance at Anthea, who seemed utterly oblivious to anything beyond her mobile. He held in a snort of contempt and just waited patiently for the car to come to a halt. When it did, he was in front of The Montcalm, the very best five star hotel at the top of Park Lane. He held his breath briefly as he gazed up at the building through the tinted 's chosen venue for this meeting was a little daunting, and he wasn't sure what to expect now.

"You can get out now. Security will see you up." Anthea stated quietly, her eyes never leaving her blackberry. John waited a moment as he contemplated another awkward attempt at asking her out, and then thought better of it. As he got out of the car, two men with head sets and suits on approached him immediately and without a single word, began to guide John into the hotel and then onto the elevator. Once the doors opened, John was ushered out and his custody was handed over to a waiting security official, who guided him further to the room.

When John came to the door, the man opened it for him and stepped aside, motioning for John to go in. As John stepped in and clear of the doorway, he was startled a bit as the door snapped shut and locked behind him. He looked around nervously, taking in the sight of the room, done up in a very modern sort of decor. It wasn't a very extravagant room, it contained a bed, a table, a mini-bar, and other standard hotel room features. Seated at the table, dressed in a sharp, black and periwinkle pinstriped three-piece suit, brolly in hand, was Mycroft Holmes. Even with one leg draped casually over the other, fingers curled around the wooden handle of his umbrella, and a smile on his lips, the man had a powerful presence.

"John, so glad you could make it." Mycroft greeted warmly, standing to greet him, extending one hand to the other man. John shook his hand disdainfully.

"As if I had a choice." John responded evenly. "What do you want Mycroft?"

Mycroft cleared his throat and straightened up a bit, setting his umbrella aside so that he could shuck his jacket off.

"I know that you are no longer human, John." Mycroft explained calmly. John frowned, furrowing his brows in mild confusion. How could Mycroft have known, let alone believed in such a far fetched notion? John hardly believed it himself most days. Mycroft didn't allow John the time to ask how he knew, and simply continued on. "It has come to my attention, and I find it quite troubling, that you've tasted fresh blood recently. Sherlock's blood. Since that happened exactly seventeen days ago, you have slowly grown hungrier for it again. It would appear from your behavior that the frozen and reheated blood I have been supplying Sherlock with for you is no longer enough to satisfy you."

So Mycroft had known this entire time. And Sherlock hadn't said. Why did John expect anything else? Of course he'd told Mycroft; who else could supply them with that much blood on a regular basis without it drawing suspicion? John took a deep, steadying breath. Mycroft watched John restrain himself, he knew all too well the kind of power John now possessed, and he was ready to stop him forcibly if need be, but he hoped that this would be a civil sort of encounter. As civil as possible.

"I guess I should have known you'd know about all this..." John said quietly, looking down at his feet in slight shame, rubbing the back of his neck nervously. Mycroft nodded slowly and stepped closer to John.

"How bad have the cravings become?" Mycroft inquired softly, watching John cringe a little at the thought of them. That was answer enough. Mycroft gave a slight sigh. "All right. I see. Well, I cannot allow you to feed on Sherlock. He may try and push you too far for the sake of his curiosity and morbid need to fight off boredom with danger. So I have a sufficient done with the same blood type and from the same blood line who should satisfy your needs."

John's head snapped up at that. He narrowed his eyes, unable to stomach the idea of feeding on some poor innocent. However, he knew instantly that Mycroft was suggesting something he had not expected, let alone thought of. Mycroft waited for John to collect his thoughts before he began to pluck open the buttons of his vest.

"You... _You_? You're suggesting that I drink from you?" John asked incredulously, unable to grasp the idea of it at all. Mycroft nodded as he let his vest slip off his rather slim body. Beneath the layers of suits, John saw just what a fragile looking form Mycroft really had. Perhaps the man had some form of an eating disorder due to all of Sherlock's harsh teasing about his weight. John pushed the thought aside, swallowing audibly as Mycroft's nimble fingers worked on the buttons on his shirt.

"I see no other likely candidates. This is the best solution I could come up with in the given situation." Mycroft stated as he let his shirt fall off as well. John's legs trembled a little as he looked upon creamy pale skin pulsing with veins. He could smell Mycroft, hear his blood, and as Mycroft stepped closer still, invading all personal space John had, he couldn't drown out those senses. Mycroft was taller than him and John wasn't sure he could drink comfortably at this angle, but Mycroft seemed to know where John's thoughts were (no surprise there) and he took John's hands and lead him back toward the bed. Mycroft sat down on the edge, putting himself at a lower level than John.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked quietly, looking not into Mycroft's eyes, but at the vein pulsing in his neck. Mycroft nodded, tipping his head to the side and exposing his throat to John.

"I have guards waiting and listening for any signs of distress, try not to lose yourself John, stay in control and stop when I ask." Mycroft warned. No sooner had Mycroft laid down the rules than John's nose was buried against his neck, inhaling the smell indulgently.

"Okay. This will hurt a bit." John's voice was thick and husky, and inhumanly hypnotic. Mycroft felt himself relaxing as if under anesthesia at the sound. He felt the wetness of John's tongue, the warm saliva leaving his skin tingling with numbness and then, there was the sharp pinch as John's sharp fangs punctured the skin, but not very deep, just enough to get a slow and steady flow of blood. John was showing carefulness in his movements, not wanting to go overboard. Mycroft gave a soft groan at the feel of John sucking on his neck. He could feel his body growing weaker in seconds and he tipped back onto the mattress, John's body following him. John was on the bed in an instant, hands and knees planted on either side of Mycroft's prone form as he drew pull after pull of hot blood from the man's veins. John rocked his hips a little, unable to help his body's response to the blood. He was full of arousal and heat, from head to toe. He moaned unconstrained against Mycroft's skin as he broke away, trying to stop himself from doing something too embarrassing.

"J-John... Don't stop." Mycroft whispered, but John shook his head.

"Shhh. That's... That's my venom talking." John said quietly, remembering how he'd felt after that vampire had fed on him the night his mortal life had ended. John lifted one of his fingers to his mouth and punctured it on his fang, using the blood that pooled there to heal the bite on Mycroft's neck. Mycroft hissed a little at the feel of John rubbing the blood into his open wounds but then sighed contently, his body tingling with satiation. John gazed down at Mycroft for a moment, his whole body pleasantly full with all the blood he'd been given.

"Thank you." John said sheepishly as he came to his senses and backed off the bed and a few steps away from Mycroft who slowly sat up and forced his eyes into focus so he could look at John from his place on the edge of the bed.

"Same time next week?" Mycroft inquired quietly.

John gave a slightly reluctant nod, looking forward to seeing his donor again already.


	5. Five The Failed Experiment

Sherlock's tongue slipped out slowly over his lower lips as he narrowed his cool eyes. His gaze steadily on John, was almost more than the jumper-wearing vampire could handle. He swallowed tightly, his own tongue darting out at the sight of Sherlock's. _Three more days_, he told himself. Three more days and then he could meet up with Mycroft again and get this craving to subside for a while longer. Sherlock of course, could sense the change in John, the difference in strength, complexion, breathing patterns, energy. All of it was safely filed away in his head as he waited for John to really slip up so he could properly accuse him of the mean time he had been sneaking a teaspoon of his own blood into John's meals secretly to keep himself occupied. So far, the experiment was rather dull. No noticeable changes.

He knew John had fed on a living human being. Though he didn't like the thought of John feeding on anyone but himself. It wasn't fair. He couldn't categorize the effects fresh blood had immediately after drinking as well as during the feeding process. His mind was spinning with thoughts and questions, but no answers. _Where John had bitten? Which major artery? Did he pick a man or a woman? He clearly left them alive because he was showing no signs of guilt. Unless he picked a criminal in which case he wouldn't feel guilty. Or perhaps he's succumbing to some form of baser instinct and no longer feels compassion... _Sherlock scoffed audibly and rolled over on the couch, throwing away the very notion of John without compassion. Vampire or not, John was a caring individual. He had to stop these thought processes before they drove him absolutely mad.

John, meanwhile, began to wonder just what Sherlock was thinking, and the harder he thought about Sherlock's thoughts, the more he began to think he was hearing them.

_He fed. That I know for certain... But why? Why now? Why give in? Is it my fault for letting him lick all that blood off me? Perhaps the taste of it became overwhelming for him. He had to have more. Then why not ask me? _

After a moment more of listening, John gave a startled gasp as he realized he _was _hearing Sherlock. His gasp was enough to call for Sherlock's attention and the lanky consulting detective rolled over and slipped up into a sitting position, cross-legged on the couch.

"What?" Sherlock inquired, forcing the curiosity from his voice, keeping his smooth baritone as close to bored and uninterested as possible.

"Nothing." John lied quietly, forcing his face to be as expressionless as possible, his body going impossibly stiff. Sherlock wrinkled his nose.

_Probably craving again. He looks strained. Weak even._

John's cheeks flushed ever so slightly with what little blood was still in his system from dinner a while ago and he folded his arms petulantly. This caused Sherlock to raise an eyebrow.

_Goodness. With a look like that, it's almost like he heard me._

John's eyes widened a bit and got up suddenly.

"I think I left the stove on." he said quickly, trying to leave. Sherlock beamed as he put together the bits of evidence and came to the conclusion that John could hear his thoughts. How amazing!

_You can hear! How brilliant, John! _

John bristled a bit as he tried to escape the detective in the kitchen. Sherlock jumped up, stepping over the coffee table and swept into the kitchen, dressing gown fluttering about him gracelessly.

_Of course he'd figure it out. Of, bloody course! Damn it Sherlock, now even my thoughts are being invaded by you.  
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Sherlock gasped and shuddered from head to toe as he heard John's voice as if it were all around him, inside every nerve ending. It was so overwhelming Sherlock made a noise of slight displeasure in the back of his throat and slumped against the door frame.

"And I can hear you." Sherlock said quietly, rubbing his forehead as his skull began to throb. "Your voice... hurts..."

_Maybe this is because of my blood... The blood I've been feeding him._

"You've been feeding me your blood!" John demanded incredulously, walking over and picking Sherlock up by his shirt collar. Sherlock grunted a little as he was slammed rather forcefully into the wall, his head smacking against it with a loud 'thunk'."How could you be so stupid!"

Sherlock's head rolled to one side as he tried to stop his head from spinning.

_Probably concussed. John's strength is more intense when he's upset._

"And you're still cataloging my abilities like I'm some damned experiment! I could _kill _you, Sherlock! You are so bloody frustrating!"

John dropped Sherlock down to the floor and let the detective cradle his head against the wall, while holding his palm against it.

"John..." Sherlock started, but words were cut short as he was flung to the ground and John's body covered his own. "John what are you doing?"

John yanked Sherlock's shirt open and exposed his neck.

"Let me clear some things up for you, since you want the information so bad." John growled maliciously, leaning in by Sherlock's neck and dragging his teeth over his throat. "It was a man that I fed on. He was willing. I didn't kill him. I fed from the carotid artery, right... here..."

Sherlock gasped and grabbed at John's shoulders helplessly as he felt the sharp pinch of a ring of teeth punctured his skin and his blood was rushing out of him and into John's mouth, some of it escaping onto Sherlock's body. He struggled a bit.

"John... John no. You can't..." Sherlock grunted, before the poison of John's fangs lulled him into a hazy, aroused, and incredibly calm state. Sherlock could count the amount of times he'd ever been aroused in his life on his two hands, and this was far better than any time before. His whole body began to tingle and was like jelly beneath John, who was grinding against him, moaning low and hungry. He was like an animal, powerful and in control, and Sherlock logically decided fear was what he should be feeling.

All he felt was bliss.

"Oh... Oh John... John..." Sherlock began to pant, his body feeling hot and heavy. He couldn't move his limbs and went limp, his eyes fluttering shut.

_You'll never stop me Sherlock. You can't. I'm stronger. I'm not human. I'm a monster. Stop trying to box me up with a bow. _

Sherlock inhaled sharply as John's fangs retracted from his body and John's fingers were rubbing blood against his wound, causing it to heal in a matter of seconds. The blood loss and poision had made Sherlock incredibly dizzy.

"Oh... And he wasn't a criminal... It was Mycroft."

Sherlock's stomach lurched at the thought, jealousy shooting through every inch of his body.

_This is becoming a rather failed experiment, _the detective thought.

_I'm inclined to agree, _called John's own consciousness as he lifted Sherlock with ease off the floor and hauled him off to his bedroom. He dumped Sherlock on his bed before retreating to his own, needing to cool down and come to grips with what he'd just done.

_I'm a monster, and Mycroft will know by morning. This is the end of the road for me._

"Oh well..." John whispered to himself. "Guess I had a good run..."_  
><em>


	6. Six The Criminal Friend

Heart beating rapid, pulse speeding up, throat tensing, fists clenching, breathing heavy, legs burning with exertion, only one thought in his mind...

_Run John Watson, run and do not stop..._

So he did. Under the cover of night he ran, quick as he could without a looking back. He'd nearly killed his best friend. He'd drank from him, he'd taken that blood greedily, and damn it he wanted more. Mycroft had come for him, and now he ran for his life. He needed shelter. Rain was pounding, icy cold on his already cold skin. His abilities afforded him incredible speed and he jumped over fences as if they were no taller than a street curb. Twisting and turning through the streets of London in a fashion similar to what he'd been doing the night everything about him changed.

The night John Watson, the doctor, soldier, and friend he was died... The night the Vampire John was born. He found himself in the middle of his own grave yard, staring down at his own headstone. His grave was empty, and it was sickening to even look at. This had to end. He could not go on like this. He could not live like a monster. He laid down on the spongy, wet grass and took in the sweet smell of damp earth and fresh rain, the faint scent of ash and decay lingering faintly underneath everything else. He closed his eyes and waited.

He was waiting for the sun to come and burn him away to nothing. Then he could go to the next life, whatever it may hold for creatures like him. Through the sound of the pattering rain he heard the squelch of footfalls in the muddying earth. John was soaked to the bone and shivering despite not really feeling the cold. He was scared to open his eyes and see just who was slowly approaching him. He prayed it was not Mycroft Holmes, or anyone in his employ for that matter.

"You look like you could use a place to stay..." came a soft, and lilting Irish accent. John sat up slowly and looked upon a face he did not recognize. A pair of big brown eyes started warmly down at him.

"Come on. Let's get you up and out of this mess. Come back to mine, have a cup of tea..." he encouraged calmly. John shook his head at this stranger.

"I... I can't... I'm a... A monster." John replied, licking his lips quickly as he heard the steady heartbeat of the other man over the sound of pouring rain.

"I know a thing or two about monsters, John Watson. And you... Are no monster..." the man replied calmly with a slow shake of his head. His lips curled up into a small and somewhat devious smile. John frowned at the other man.

"How do you know my name?" he asked suspiciously, not sure what to make of this situation.

"You know mine also..." the man explained. "It's a pleasure to finally meet in person. I am Jim _Moriarty_. And you... _Need..._ my help."

John shook his head, scrambling to his feet and stepping backwards awkwardly bumping into his headstone.

"How could you _possibly _help me?" he demanded, glaring at his best friend's arch nemesis. Jim tilted his head and closed his eye briefly.

"Because John... We're not so different anymore, you and I. I know what it's like to be called a monster... I know what it's like to be so very... very different from everyone else. I can help you... But you... Have to take a leap of... faith, if you will... And trust me." Jim drawled, extending his hand to John. "And honestly, John, you won't live to see another night without my protection... Do you _really _want to die?"

John looked down at the offered hand with narrowed eyes and then back up to Moriarty's face. He didn't want to die, but he certainly didn't want to live like this anymore. In fear of himself. Maybe... Maybe Moriarty could help him. But was it _worth it? _John wasn't sure he had much choice.

"I won't give you any information about Sherlock... If that's what you're thinking." John said coldly. Jim snorted, shaking his head and rolling his eyes.

"John, anything I want, I already have access to. I don't _need you _or your information. I know more than you can possibly imagine... So are you coming with me... Or not?"

John looked down at the extended hand and slowly reached out, taking it gingerly in his own. His light grip was returned with a tight one, and the next thing John knew, he was being lead out of the graveyard by Jim Moriarty, and escorted into a big black car headed to an unknown (to John) destination. This could either be the beginning of something better, or the start of something so much worse...

* * *

><p><strong>~tbc<strong>


	7. Seven The Woman

John wasn't sure what possessed him to come with Jim. Now he was stretched across a chez lounge like an overfed house cat, wearing a loose fitting periwinkle satin dress shirt and black slacks awaiting the return of the all too hospitable consulting criminal. John took in his warm and swank surroundings. There was a fireplace with a crackling fire on it's hearth. Above the mantle was a luxuriously expensive looking painting, possibly a stolen original knowing Moriarty. All around the room was done up in designer deep reds and golds. It was like a palace and if John was being honest with himself this was _exactly _what he expected of Jim. Unlike Sherlock, Jim clearly had a flair for the frivolous and extravagant. It was, in some ways, a nice change of pace.

John's hair was still a bit damp from the rain but he hardly noticed it anymore. He was too busy taking all this in. When Jim returned, it was with a curvacious and beautiful woman at his side.

"John, I'd like you to meet a wonderful woman of my employ. This is Irene... And she'll be something of a... sponsor for you and your habits." Jim said smoothly, stepping aside so Irene could come forward. Her body was mostly exposed. All she wore was a sheer dressing gown that really left nothing to the imagination. Her heartbeat was incredibly steady and she didn't seem at all bothered by John who sat up so fast a human eye would never register the movement. He could smell her blood, and thankfully, she wasn't wearing any perfume. Her hair was done up in a bun which John was itching to tug out of place. He glanced from her to Jim, who stood back with a warm and somewhat mischievous smile.

"Are you sure about this?" John asked, his eyes flicking back to the woman's face, though he was tempted to gaze anywhere else on her body. Irene laughed quietly, her voice was like a dizzying drug in John's ears. So soft, sultry, and inviting that John wanted to drown in it.

"I'm sure. Jim here pays _handsomely..._ And you're definitely... easy on the eyes. It seems like a fairly good arrangement. I've done worse for less..." she said, reaching up as if she knew what John had been thinking, and pulled her hair free, shaking it loose so it flowed around her. John didn't waste anymore time and grabbed her with that same force and speed that seemed to catch Jim off guard but it didn't phase Irene in the least. John laid her immediately down on the lounge and pulled at the tie of her dressing gown, letting it fall open as he nuzzled against her neck. He could smell her blood, and her heartbeat picked up just a bit as her breath hitched in her throat. John's nose trailed down her body, over her collar and between her breasts. His mouth falling open and his fangs tickling over her bare skin. Her stomach twitching instinctively away from the sharp points. He kept moving lower until his nose was in her inner thigh, his body humming with the amount of hunger passing through it. He could smell her blood, her sex, everything. It was intense and so carnal John was worried it might take him to an edge he couldn't ever return from.

But he bit anyway. His fangs sank slow into her leg and his poison moved into her veins as he drank from her. He gasp of pain soon melted into moans, her hips canting upward as she gripped tightly to the sides of the lounge, her fingernails threatening to rip into the rich upholstery. Jim was transfixed on the sight, watching the pair like a hawk examining it's prey. There was a severe hunger in his gaze and John glanced over to look at him, their eyes locking as John pulled his mouth away from Irene's leg with an audible slurp. His mouth and chin were stained with blood and his eyes almost pitch black with dilation.

Jim crossed the space between them, Irene who was panting and bleeding on the furniture temporarily forgotten as the consulting criminal crushed his mouth against John's, kissing him with a certain animalistic ferocity that John had never experienced between. The mingling taste of Jim's saliva and Irene's blood was only adding to the headiness John was feeling. His body was humming with post-feeding arousal and he couldn't bring himself to break away. Something in him gave way to a beast he was having an increasingly difficult time control. Jim broke away long enough to call for someone to retrieve Irene and give her the medical care she'd need and then, once she was retrieved, he and John were alone...

"I could kill you, you know..." John growled, pressing his body to Jim's and nipping at his jaw menacingly, spreading blood and spit along Moriarty's face. Jim's breathing hitched and he grinned.

"But then you'd be no better than me..." Jim taunted. So John threw him to the floor, tore apart his clothes to get to the skin beneath, and took him...


End file.
